Paladin Leeroy: Lost Soul
by Sir Cloud
Summary: A few people who haven't played Dark Souls read this and found it a little complicated, it was hard to get the whole hollow/undead thing across without dying and going back to the bonfire, so I put it less obvious. I hope you enjoy, comment if you like/don't like, if the lore is accurate or grammar. The short story is about Leeroy facing the challenges of the Catacombs.
1. Chapter One: Firelink Shrine

_Long ago, the Way of the White produced its  
first Undead, a paladin in golden armor.  
With the legendary treasures Grant and  
Sanctus, Leeroy set out for Lordran,  
Land of the Gods, in the first Undead  
mission of the Way of White._

**Chapter One: Firelink Shrine.**

'_The flow of time itself is convoluted; with heroes centuries old phasing in and out.'- _Knight Solaire.

On the mantle lay the big white book, its edges worn, the pages tattered, dried yellow and crisp from age, its softened brittle cover bound loosely together with haggard old leather. The Cleric placed his hand on its surface. He began to preach, a perpetual stream of words, they rose in volume, echoing throughout the empty chapel. Leeroy stood by the greying haired, wizened skinned man and closed his eyes. He did not focus on the summoning words, he focused on god, Gywn, the father of the flame. Gywns gold three pronged crown of the gods ascended in his mind, coated in a blazing seemingly everlasting flame, until it suddenly corroded and turned to black cinder. Ash remained and darkness engulfed the void. All that remained was a deathly white hovering precariously above the black void. The bright white wavered around the deep blackening mass, the white which wanted to dissipate forever, two opposing colours connected to man's soul. Humanity, this revelation, a piece of the furtive pygmy's dark soul which originated from the chaos of fire, was everything to mankind's survival. To be revived from a hollow state, to appear human wholly undead and never hollow was a godsend. Or was it?

"Your Faith must be strong." The man explained, decorated in black shining Elite Cleric armour, the plating glossed so new and untouched, it had never seen battle. Many plates protected his frail, withering body, yet he could still hold the bulk of weight on his boney shoulders. He held an innocuous scrunched brown bag of cloth in his clenched hand. Armed with nothing but this empty pouch, which in actuality declared to a veteran of war that he was brimmed to the teeth. He had high faith as he held god in high esteem.

Leeroy did not speak, he didn't have time to ask questions and the Church didn't have time to answer them.

"Your Talisman." He held it out. Leeroy slowly edged forwards, he held out his palm and the bag almost fluttered off in the breeze, but he caught it tight, never to let it go, a statement of faith to the gods. He looked at the bland object.

"We have little time, but with this, you will become are greatest hope." The man was old, which Leeroy did not always attribute to being wise, but the word hope, was he to be the greatest hope? Now the Cleric appeared wise, oh, he was a disciple of god and his words rang true! For how could they be lies? Leeroy thought, as he clasped HIS Talisman.

The fire was undying to a golden paladin armed with boundless humanity. A virtuous little Maiden of Thorolund, who resided in the Shrine, was replete with souls of mankind. And as their allegiance was to the Way of the White, the religious sect in Thorolond, Leeroy was allowed an infinite amount, the Gods willed it. The black, white shimmering orb of life, manifested with a living soul of sorts, made no sense to Leeroy. It did not matter, he was Undead and in his haste he needed as much of the stuff as he could acquire or as the Allfather Lloyd commanded, required, forcefully taking it from Undead, in the name of Gwyn our God was acceptable. No matter what, Leeroy did not want to kill living beings to acquire it, there were always other ways, though long and arduous they were. The Firelink Shrine in Lordran, where he resided, was stark, empty of life and coated with debris and broken remnants. Giant pillars and statues with faces chipped, spoilt and defaced lay scattered in the overgrown grass mounds. This once sacred place of prayer, home to a Firekeeper trapped below behind bars, comforted many a Knight, Cleric, Pyromancer and Mage, their missions to light the flame, their missions in this convoluted time had accomplished nothing but failure. Even the great King Rendal had failed. It is said by one such unknown Knight '_There is an old saying in my family… Thou who art Undead, art chosen. In thine exodus from the Undead Asylum, maketh pilgrimage to the land of Ancient Lords… When thou ringeth the Bell of Awakening, the fate of the Undead thou shalt know.'_

Leeory had done none of these tasks, because the Church Covenant Way of the White demanded only the Rite of Kindling and Leeroy vowed to find it. The flame before him, everlasting with a Firekeeper present, still needed to be stoked. And the Rite of Kindling furthered the use of humanity offered into the flame and it would grow oh so great, enveloped with yellow, oranges and red flames until tipped with a bright raging crimson hue.

Many ghosts and lingering phantoms appeared then disappeared in a flash, aspiring Undead heroes attempting to save the lost land of Gods, of Lordran.

The world was once filled with great Archtree's, housing the eternal dragons which roamed the earth. There was an ever presence of darkness and one cannot see without light, thus the flame emerged to enlighten the lost stragglers. Beneath Earth's crust, fire roared into existence and with the flame, humans, small insignificant creatures compared to the Gods, emerged. The Gods, giants of men, were armed with sword and devastating magic. Within the flame they found the Lord souls. The Gods found great clumps of fiery souls with immense power, they wielded them and fought the dragons, tearing them down from the skies. They worked together, Gwyn fired bolts of lightning, Nito unleashed devastating miasmas, the witch Izalith burnt the Archtree's to the ground and one scale-less dragon, betrayed his own kin, which lead to the Gods eventual victory. Then came the Age of Fire, the history though, meant little to Leeroy. He only wanted Thorolund to prosper, he wasn't selfish, but if Thorolund could become stable he would then venture out to save other accursed lands.

Within the tall strands of green moist grass, the one place in Lordran where nature could stay its course, lay Leeroys great boulderesque weapon, Grant. A giant indestructible weapon of devastation, the rock solid iron shaped boulder was tightly linked to a metal and wooden balanced shaft. It required great strength to wield it, he had trained long and hard to swing it with versatility. It also required the utmost Faith as it was a weapon of divinity and possessed the ability to crush Skeletons of the Catacombs and keep them from reassembling. Sanctus, a standard Kite shield imbued with a rejuvenating green healing spell lay next to him, a bulbous round metal dome held it firmly together and could be used to ram enemies when in inextricable circumstances. Its face was green, with a turquoise stream that ran between the gaps and decorated around the center was delicately painted intricate white petals. The Way of the White had given him all their new toys and armour to destroy the perpetually brewing evil in the Catacombs. His Paladin armour shone gold in the reflection of the flame, dancing flames lit up the carvings etched into the shoulder and chest pieces. Adorned circular jewels hanging from the chest plate lit up, flames circled around the edges like a hurricane forming in the ocean. Bright finely cut white cloth dangled over his midriff, newly sown, with a few loose pieces of thread here and there which hung in the breeze. It hadn't been trimmed so well, Leeroy started to pull at the thread, only to tighten the cloth and make the situation worse.

He left it and laid back in the soft, comforting grass. He seldom felt this alone as he stared into the sparse clouds barely visible in the open sea blue sky. He wondered if that's how he'd end up, just another Hollow wandering aimlessly, but he shouldn't have, god was his companion, ever watchful, ever merciful, he would be exalted. The hope of men and gods rested on his shoulders. He removed his arrowhead tipped helmet, he ran his finger across the fine thin narrow slit which ran across the face, a design created to protect his eyes but severely hampered his vision. The surrounding reinforced plating protected his brow, nose and mouth, it was blessed with divine intervention to protect him from Necromancy. Sweat dribbled from the base of the helmet as he lay it on its side, he let his black greasy hair flay out across the grass and cool in the breeze. His eyes became thinner and he blinked less as he slowly slipped into reverie.

The next few days lingered on at a dawdling pace, it felt like forever as he sat at the simmering fire and contemplated his sacrosanct mission. He went over the information that was given to him about the Catacombs, there was not a lot to go by as every explorer who ventured in, never returned. He went over strategies and what he learnt in his training, but really he was just stalling.


	2. Chapter Two: Catacombs

**Chapter Two: The Catacombs. **

The rickety stairs wound down into the cavern, the light started fading, catching a step roughly half way, he couldn't quite tell though as it was pitch black. He heard a strange whirring noise, a rattling and then nothing. He shrugged his chest, rolling his shoulders, trying to ease the burden of carrying Grant and Sanctus.

It became so dark he felt blind. He stood in complete silence, observant, praying he'd adapt instantly, he focused hard on an outline then an imperceptible scuttle, the longer he focused the less conclusive it was, it was all mental, the hollow hole playing on his mind. He could hear himself breath, heavier and heavier in the confined space of his helmet. His nerves taking their toll, he tried to slow his exhaling, calming himself with the knowledge that Firelink Shrines safety was mere meters away. His senses would take too long to adapt, he had no choice but to carry on, the white light of Gywn would guide him. He slung the shield over his back and tightened the leather strap over his shoulder. He held his free arm out and groped along the bumpy, rock strewn wall. The strange whirring clatter started up, he could only comprehend it as a strangled inhuman scream. Leeroy endured the darkness until a soft white glow revealed itself, appealing to the eye in this all-encompassing blackness, he held his hand out and then pulled it back to the safety of the wall as it rattled vigorously in midair. The empty grey hulk of bone reminiscent of a human skull, lunged forward point blank into his face, a violent piercing scream erupted from its distorted jaw. It ignited in a ray of light, quickly illuminating a bone strewn path, it was narrow and wound around a sheer drop into a bottomless pit, the littered bones started to float across the ground and merge into reanimated skeletons. The detonation knocked him off his feet and as he got up a skeleton took a swing, a lump of steel struck his helmet, indenting it into his skull. He turned back into the light of day and ran to the mid-point where the sun began and the darkness ended. He saw the abysmal, decaying bone structure of a once fallen hero, who had struck him so viciously, walk into the light. The sword gleamed revealing its location in the shadows, Leeroy swung the Grant two handed, crushing the foul beast into dust.

He knew the power of Necromancy, these Catacombs had a master.

What cryptic monster would reside in such an ebon, lifeless abode? What entity would repossess the skeletal wreckages of men, lost and brave souls that traversed the Catacombs to cleanse this blasphemy? He did not want to dwell too hard on it, he had not been given enough information prior to this expedition. No one had ever returned. Whatever lurked down there had its soulless grasp over the forgotten Undead.

Any messenger of Gywn, any sane or insane warrior backed by his holiness had the right, the will of god imposed on them to have an honourable death and a holy burial, not their bodies twisted and deformed to fight for this demon. When Leeroy inevitably reached this perverse demon of bone and dead flesh, he would not face the fate of lesser men. He would exorcise the Catacombs of the heretical blasphemy.

The second time was less daunting, but he knew there would be new and terrifying evils to behold in this trapped cavern. He virtually crawled across the narrow ledge knowing he overlooked a drop that would lead to his demise. His hand was constantly on the wall, he checked his grip on the protruding rocks, he did not want to hold on to intensely, only for a chunk to crack off which would make him lose his balance. Dust and gravel sputtered over a drop which he found with his leading foot. He slinked along until he felt two cold bars of a metal ladder. He slid down and landed in a heap of dry bones, they cracked and fragments spun off clanging against the wall. The echo bounced around a small tunnel, once the sound died, he heard an unnatural groan, he realized once again, he had awoken something.

One of the four Lords in the ancient age of Flame was Gravelord Nito. Paladin Leeroy knew them by name and each attribute they possessed to help Gwyn destroy the Stone Dragons roaming Earth's surface. The signs in the Catacombs indicated to non-other than Gravelord Nito. There was a lesser Necromancer below, that Leeroy was certain of, but further down he could smell the death, waves of deadly miasmas travelling upwards trying to find the light of day and spread its corruption. Age long dead bodies were rotting, withering away, bones upon bones of forgotten heroes lay scattered, so many of them they filled the ground of the ever deepening cave like a carpet. There was a constant crunching noise taken with every stride, alerting enemies of his whereabouts.

It was all a guess though, no one had ever come back to say whether or not they had seen Nito, but Leeroy and the Way of the White were certain and they had prepared their glorious golden Paladin. His body layered with chainmail and plating to protect him from the skeletons slashing, bleeding weapons. The white cloth was dosed in protective ointments, so curses and poison couldn't soak in. The Clerics knew of the weaponry the skeletons used, as they lumbered aimlessly around the graveyard, entrance to the Catacombs and only a few hundred meters walk from the protection of the Firelink Shrine.

Grant was blessed with divine powers to crush and keep down the unrelenting hordes of self-reviving cursed skeletons. He knew past the dead, dark, stench that hovered throughout the dank caves, was a crippling jagged dancing of blades, streaming with disease and beyond, empty skulls hung jangling from its neck, two red eyes pierced through the veil, the vivid image tore into his mind, like a persisting nightmare. That ghastly, black mist covered heretic frightened him more than anything in this cesspool of death.


	3. Chapter Three: Pinwheel

**Chapter Three: Pinwheel.**

He hesitantly clambered down the precipitous ledge, rocks skittered after him, bouncing once off the sharp rock filled jutting ledge below and then disappearing in a blanket of dust. He managed to teeter across the precipice and land on the familiar comfort of solid ground. How anything could comfort a sane man here, only he knew, his daunting painful trek through the Catacombs was more than enough to turn any man mentally insane. It was very serendipitous he happened upon this shortcut that cut out the majority of the meandering tombs that wove in and out of this riddling cave. It beat his methodical technique of clearing each tomb one by one, laying to rest hordes of ravenous skeletal monsters which inevitably would of worn him out before the suspected Necromancer. Leeroy looked down at his once bright white clothing, now ashen and riddled with dust, he tried to pat it down, a pointless task as only a cloudy puff arose, sucking into the ventilation of his helmet. He tried to hold the tingling in the back of his throat, but ended up coughing loudly. The cough echoed throughout the open basin at the bottom of the cavernous drop, ricocheting off the walls and passing into intertwining passageways, into nooks and crannies inhabited by skeletons. They abruptly awoke from their long slumber.

The cave was awash with a palette of blue, a sapphire tinged the rocks edges, mottled darker greens caught a thin ray of light which pierced through a fissure high above, it illuminated the centre which looked more like sea waves then the cold decaying barren ground of a centuries old cavern. There was a tumultuous blare that resounded throughout, the shockwave loosened a sputtering of rocks which crumbled down from a deep scar unnaturally torn in the stone above. There was a dead silence before a skeleton, wrapped around a wooden helm trundled in at a high speed. Leeroy side stepped and the spikes of the helm spun viciously, tearing up the rock and soil and leaving a jagged trail behind it. Dirt and bits of fossilised bone and body peppered the air. A fetid stench coughed and bubbled from the freshly opened layers of waste, a compost blend of burrowing insects and corpses. The spinning skeleton battered into the stone wall, rotating non-stop, merely scratching away pathetically at the immovable cavern rock. Leeroy turned and crashed the iron mass of Grant onto its spine, bending the wood over itself, shattering it into wood splinters which fragmented off and stuck into the ground. The skeletons armed twitched, and Leeroy finished it off with one quick strike.

He was perturbed, but the abstract idealism of a world filled with fire, a living light for humanity burnt strong in his mind. All this death, even the simplicity of staring into an empty skull had meaning, that being once lived a normal life. He was contrite over putting them to rest, but it was righteous in the name of Gywn, hopefully these lost souls would find relief somewhere else. Wherever that _else _was.

He staggered into the narrow corridor, the blues and greens washed away into a more familiar ashen path, white, grey and black shades formed into a deepening shroud of darkness. The white cloth hung off his body in strips, torn by brutal attacks, it was bathed in blood red, the chainmail links had broken, his side torn from a wheeled skeleton. He was still strong enough, but that strength whittled away as a strange premonitory feeling benumbed him.

A yellow sandstone broken roof gave way to a small drop into a shallow water filled square room. The corners were filled with books, some stacked, some lay open and soaked in puddles, most were littered randomly, discarded unwantedly. Mounds and mounds of scrolls and literature. Leeroy noticed the hanging skeletons, and came to the uneasy conclusion that these were tomes filled to the brink with perverse necromancy spells.

He leapt down, the iron chunk clanged and splashed the water, the Sanctus' green glimmer danced in the disturbed waves. His resplendent gold armour scintillated across the water's surface. A myriad of skulls and bones hung, tightened on worn rope, the entire anatomy of hundreds of bodies and parts dangled precariously. He stared incredulously at all the experimental remnants.

A hunched, black cloaked figured hadn't heard his arrival or was ignoring him, its back protruded several thin metal arms, which were working away on shattered bones across a makeshift desk. Its arms flurried up and down, until it had finished its job and tried to stretch upright to appreciate its work, but its back deformed and hunched wouldn't let it. Its shoulders bobbed slightly instead, as if giddy with pleasure from its harrowing triumph. The Necromancer turned, staring with its three distorted masks, their mouths elongated and their eye sockets dark as the depths of hell. Each was distinctively different though, tarnished silver and bronze, representing the mother, child and father. They were theatrical rather than intimidating, the smiles like a giant crescent, frowns bent down to the chin and bulbous eyes overly exaggerated. The masks operated by themselves, looking the Paladin up and down inscrutably.

A raucous cacophony erupted from the twisted turning masks of the Necromancer. From its six diminutive arms hung lanterns, roaring with intense flame. The master of skeletons, Pinwheel, drew them forth and fired a raging torrent of fire. Leeroy stepped back and raised Sanctus. The fire surged across the rim of the shield scorching the peak of his helmet, it hummed a bright red then faded to a dim cinder glow. The beautiful white flame paint work started to peel at the edges, the green healing strands emanated soaring in height, unaffected by the dark magic, endlessly rejuvenating Leeroy.

Leeroy slung Grant over his back and held his Talisman. He knelt down on one knee and a gold transparent circle formed around him, concentric shapes and patterns danced around in the inner circle. An aurora of greenish, gold bands rose around him, interlocking and dispersing. A speckled gas cloud, powdery in appearance folded over itself and remerged as a rotating light, it spun above him before fading into the sky. Replenishment, a healing miracle of the Gods, granted to all Clerics.

He had a profound belief in only calling upon the Gods at certain times and not to waste their abilities on petty brawls. This Necromancer had a few tricks up his sleeve, which he had several of…

The black silhouette faded out, it appeared suddenly behind him, and another to his left… then right. It had duplicated itself into many identical forms. He swung violently at one, on touch of the cold iron it vanished immediately. The rest of the forms combined their spindly arms and charged their powerful magic. They surrounded and unleashed the waves of red fiery doom upon him. He clenched the Talisman and his whole body shuddered. Within an instance a holy bright white ball grew, larger and larger in his vicinity, it expanded and exploded outwards, projecting the Necromancers magic back at its respective selves.

He lunged at the remaining form and repeated the attack, known as Wrath of God, delving into an unseen amount of Faith, it was the first time in years any Cleric or Paladin had accessed the true unparalleled divine power of the Gods. Its violent waves of white showered and burnt the hunched caped demon. One mask was set ablaze, its smiling face melting into sadness, an ember struck his cloak and ignited like a raging forest fire along its seams and continued to set the Necromancer alight. Leeroy gripped the handle of Grant, with all his strength he raised the godlike weapon above his head and crashed it down upon the being. The masks crumpled and smashed across the paper laden floor, the cloaks flames evaporated in the shallow water and the beings arms were bent, flailing wildly for a second before Leeroy smashed its remnants into oblivion. He continued to lay into it, until nothing but scraps of black cloth and broken bones were left in an unrecognisable heap.


	4. Chapter Four: Tomb of the Giants

**Chapter Four: Tomb of the Giants. **

Leeroy begun to sift a bone, possibly a finger or toe, through the dirt, particles soft as sand were easily divided as he wrote. As he dug in he could feel hard clay, and beneath that solid granite, he'd gotten much further into the depths than he'd ever imagined. Small bugs crawled out and dug new holes as he pushed aside fossilised bones of men and demons.

_L E E…R? _

He couldn't remember, he had not taken up quill to scroll in so long he had forgotten how to write… no … he had…

What is my name?

Leeroy found it, buried amongst the endless tide of books, manuscripts and spell tomes, the Rite of Kindling. A red flame, enveloping a deep black spiraled up the cover. The book was fairly damp, but not soaked, he opened the pages carefully and the words hadn't run, it was all eligible. He sat, removed his helmet and smeared some water over his forehead. It was refreshing, satisfying, he hadn't cleaned since he ventured down, which was…

Never mind.

Nothing was important anymore, he had completed his sacrosanct task! He held it proudly in the air, the cover opened and pages flapped loosely over his head. He had succeeded where everyone else had failed, but he did not feel proud, no, he thirst for more. He wanted to crush Gravelord Nitos Lord Soul and end his treacherous ways.

No one deserved a never ending cycle of constant fighting, for what? These empty carcasses to wind back up only to be smashed into the dirt. It was no way to live, the soul needed to leave the body. Pinwheel was dead, no longer would he face the torment of these helpless Skeletons. Further down, in the Tomb of the Giants, lay much greater enemies instead.

_Kindling was a sacred rite passed down among Clerics,  
but all Undead can imitate the process in the same manner  
that they restore their Hollowing with humanity.  
How peculiar that humans had found little use for humanity until they turned Undead._

He had to continue on, but… the Rite… it needed to rest upon the mantle. No, he would continue his endeavor and liberate the world from the evil miasma king and then head back up to the surface.

He climbed up a ladder, out of the square box room of Pinwheel into pitch black. Luckily he had robbed the mangled corpse of one of its lanterns. It meant he had to do without the protection of Sanctus and no doubt be caught off-guard from some monstrous mammoth. The flame lit the cavern, there was no trace of natural light that would aid him. Giant pillars lay lopsided, Leeroy imagined a once great golden city, much like Izalith, coated with intricate designs and great grandiose overelaborate towers spewing with fumes. With buildings housing giant rooms with libraries, where bookcases grazed the ceiling, jam-packed with sorcery tomes. Mages paced up and down, lost in thought as they read the art of magic... Instead it was destroyed and everything lay in ruins, bones of men, stone structures of men…

What did the sun look like? Feel like? The daydream broke as he came to and realised the heat beating upon his face was merely the lantern too close for comfort. He relaxed under a huge skeleton, its thigh bone wider than his chest. The Tomb of the Giants, as he named it, was home to skeletons ten times the height of the ones he had felled, those bodies belonging to mere mortals. He reckoned these were the empty shells of once Gods that had failed to vanquish Nito, maybe they had come down to steal and consume his soul though? If the time came, would he be strong enough to crush the soul, or would greed become of him?

The sun felt like a wondrous incandescent father, the god of sunlight, was… ah yes, Gwyn of course! Why was he down here again… what was he doing…

He tightened the bandage around his wounded chest and pierced arm. His ribs were bruised, maybe one or two broken, he could deal with that pain, but he would succumb to the infection running across his bloodied arm soon enough and his strength would diminish and Sanctus would be left behind… No he could always carry it over his back, it would make him cumbersome but he would delve into his last reserves of strength if he had to. He scrutinized the Talisman… where was Gwyn now? He looked across to the bonfire, the flames dancing, stoked by humanity, man's soul.

_If the soul is the source of all life,  
then what distinguishes the humanity  
we hold within ourselves?_

He was running out of humanity and if he did, he would become hollowed and wander the tomb as a lifeless being till the end of time. Until another hero, fallible and flawed stepped down into the dark and repeatedly destroyed him like he had done to so many others. Pinwheel was dead and surely the souls of man would forgive him? Would god forgive him? Why did the Way of the White really send him down on this impossible mission?

Why did he care, now of all times? Because it wasn't such a grandiose mission after all. He had been paraded around the streets of Thorolund like a hero before he had even achieved anything.

He had to get the Rite to the Firelink Shrine. He didn't know how though. To continue the flame, the will of Gwyn, who had sacrificed himself to carry on the Age of Fire… What would happen if the flame that linked all bonfires in the Kiln went out?

Alone, his mind was maddening him with erring questions. He had slid down many crushed pillars, dodged giant skeletons wielding weapons as big as he was and made it down to this desolate, cut off fire that lay on a ledge next to a single giant frame of bone. He clambered up the deteriorating ladder beside the fire and noticed a silhouette. Leeroy held his weapon ready in his sweaty nervous grip. The figure moved forwards into the light of his shaking lantern.

"Hello there." The gangly man ebulliently smiled.

"…"

"What are you doing down here? Are you a Cleric or something?" The man prodded. Leeroy looked him up and down. He wore ordinary leather battle gear and wielded a standard rectangular great shield with the crest of an eagle patterned over it, but the Crescent axe, that had divine powers and he did not seem like anyone from the order. Leeroy looked at him skeptically.

"Yes." He replied meekly, his face wanly. He had not seen anything edible for a long time and water was sparse. The once splendid gold armour hung off his malnourished bones, he looked emaciated and his face showed it.

"Hmm well…" He replied, unconvincingly. "Take a look down there, plenty of trinkets and treasures to be found! It'll shimmer you blind!" He exclaimed enthusiastically.

Leeroy looked at him dubiously and poised himself over the edge, he held up the lantern.

"I can't…"

The man turned and kicked him down the ditch. Leeroy landed amongst corpses, souls hovered above the bones and the bodies had been completely stripped.

"Heh heh, this is what I do, my friend. The trinkets I'll be stripping off your corpse; that's the real treasure! Nyah hah hah hah!" He stood rubbing his hands emphatically and laughing hysterically.

"Bastard." Leeroy spat blood onto the ground. He had landed heavily on his injured side. Broken and ashamed he clambered to his feet. The light in the lantern was rapidly shrinking.

He moved several feet and heard a whimpering. He wasn't sure if he was deluded but his senses had adapted somewhat and he was sure a young female was crying softly to herself. He stepped forward and the pure white of a Maidens robe shone in the orange glow. It was the same Maiden at the Firelink Shrine, she belonged to the Way of the White. He limped over to her and knelt beside her.

"You're no hollow, are you?" She spoke with a discordance, sounding as out of place as she looked.

"No." He reassured her by holding up his Talisman, one given by a Cleric of the Way of the White. _Don't you remember me?_

He looked at the nubile Maiden, how did she get down here?

"I was on a mission with two Clerics, but we got separated. I am glad you're here." She smiled weakly.

He grabbed her hand and uncurled her fingers, he placed the Rite of Kindling in her palm.

"You need to reach the surface."

"But how?" She replied timidly, she had lost all hope in this tomb, expecting it to be her grave.

He looked up at the ledge where he'd been kicked off.

"I have an idea, do you have any humanity?" He asked kindly.

She shook her head shamefully.

Leeroys head hung, he only had so much left and he desperately needed it. He'd have to offer it to the man that so hastily kicked him down to his 'death'.

"Follow me."

"…Oh, you, I… Let's just calm down. Talk about things… I did you wrong. But, I didn't mean it. These temptations, they can, well, overcome me… You know what I mean? Don't you? Please forgive me. You and me, we're jolly Undead outcasts, aren't we?" The man stood uneasy now, trembling, twiddling his thumbs, his confidence extinguished.

Leeroys mind oscillated between right and wrong. He couldn't afford to take the Maiden up to the surface, his mission was too important to turn a blind eye and no one else could carry it out. If he saw the sun again, he would never want to go back to this dark, cryptic dwelling. This place had deluded and corrupted this man in front of him, how long had he been down here? How long would it take Leeroy to…

"Here is humanity. Take this Maiden to the surface and all is forgiven, do not come back down here and trick and deceive anyone else, you hear?" Leeroy stepped close to the man now, Grant scraping menacingly against the stone beside him.

"Oh brilliant! A second chance, wonderful!" He emanated rapture.

"(Don't let him know about the Rite.)"


	5. Chapter Five: Gravelord Nito

**Chapter Five: Gravelord Nito.**

The flame began to dwindle, he no longer had humanity to stoke the fire of man's soul, the time to fight Nito was upon him. Had he done what was right? Should he have gone with the others? And abandon _my_ post, no. No one can be burdened with this mission. I alone.

He could barely raise his arm, the lanterns swinging handle remained still as he faintly gripped it with two unfurling fingers, the last of his strength waned like the flickering ember in the glass case.

Before him lay a vast intersection of caves and slopes whirling into gradually darkening recesses. If only he knew the direct path. With Grant on his shoulder he slugged forwards at a stumbling pace. The light now only spread several meters in front of him. He walked under a crumbling archway and before him stood a giant frame of bone and crunching jaw, it hunched down to his head height and let out an alarming deep bellowing call. Beyond, the shifting of ancient gods in the dark, tipped by the now yellow ending flame could be vaguely seen. Leeroy held the immense hunk of iron in one hand, it was easy when one was so attuned with the Gods. And then it ached, and the bulk crashed into the meager soil, swarming with miniscule bugs, the colony the size of a rug began to move in unison distorting the ground before him. He let go and took out the Talisman. The cavern and all its winding roads were immediately lit up in an obscuring, blinding holy white light. The bones of once Gods rattled as they were thrown, bouncing around the cave like insignificant insects being violently shook in a jar. He wanted Nito now and no one else, no foul ghosts that lingered in these ruins would stop him.

Hah! A natural light had travelled through so many broken fissures, cracks and scars that ran throughout the granite stone. The darkness had finally given way to a vast landscape, hovering with a murky white fog, the mist moist on his lips and the fresh air stung at his nostrils. He struggled to sit down on the narrow pathway, his legs hung over a drop coated in the haze. Sparse green grass, flattened and decaying but still with a tinge of life lay around him. He tried to picture the long strands of grass at the safety of the Shrine. What was there? There was… a bonfire… Of course, of course, but…

The light passed through what he presumed was the last tomb before the great Lord, before the grand finale. He had discarded the lantern, not that it mattered, his arm had completely gone, numb and riddled with sickly green veins.

He limped aimlessly to his final destination, holding the hilt of Grant at the tip, struggling to plough it through the ground as it churned up chunks of stone equally as enormous in size.

He looked up as he stood at the high point of a scooped out cave. Stalactite rock shards hung from the jagged ceiling and thinner icicle shaped ones beside them. Far on the north-east side an embankment with a bulwark of long sharp wooden stakes protected an alcove. It must be the entrance to Nito, why else would it be so heavily fortified?

As if anything else could surprise him, several forms of Pinwheel, clones or lesser beings, stood on the ramparts.

He held his head back and looked into the ceiling, as if to curse the Gods themselves for his pitiful luck.

He sidestepped, which was more of a stumble and an attempt to regain balance than anything else. Several dark pulsating balls of flame struck him, he fell to his knees and rolled off the ledge into a shallow stream. The water became red around him, smoke sizzled off the burnt threads of his clothing. His cloak that ran down to his ankles was blackened and torn to slivers. He knelt and pulled Sanctus over his back, its face dented and a large crack ran down the side where a piece had snapped and fallen off into the stream. His blood suffused over the water as the white waves and red coalesced together.

Another salvo of blasts struck the Sanctus, its green healing glow had all but faded now. He charged up the ramp and smashed the silver dome of the shield into the mask of one corrupt imitation. He kept beating, bludgeoning the round ram part until it dented flat. Shards of mask chipped and smashed off, the faceless being, just a black hole, crumpled into its cloak. The spindly arms and fiery lanterns fell to the ground with a thud. Leeroy turned to face his demons, a black cloud hit him full face. The scorching fire seared his eyes and scalded his face. His skin bubbled and bulged morphing black, streams of tears like molten lava liquefied his face. He screamed as the natural light disappeared, the darkness shrouded him as if he had stepped into the Catacombs for the first time. He touched the ground, groping it unsteadily until he found the remnants of Sanctus. It was battered and useless, so he turned to the divine power of Grant. He gathered his energy and in a single burst, he pelted up the ramp and dived straight through the stakes. A sharp, thick point was driven straight into his infected arm, it cut through the chainmail and plating, digging under his shoulder and tore the useless limb clean off. He rolled as he hit the deck, tumbling over and over until he fell off a sheer drop and crashed to the cold hard ground.

He could feel it now, a black mist of death slowly hovering precariously around him. The smell, a fetid mix of raw flesh and rotting carcasses.

He felt the Talisman in his pocket and pulled it out. He placed it on the ground.

"I am a God." He said aloud, denouncing his Faith and all that he had once believed in. No God, omnipotent, all seeing, all knowing, would let man face these trials unaided. He had faced his trial against Pinwheel and succeeded, where was Gywn then, where was he now? The white flame like petals across Sanctus, his Talisman, Grant… his sacred Paladin armour… The Clerics of the Way of the White were frauds. His Gods had left him blind, disemboweled, a longing for a sun, a longing for a life to be lived!

Gravelord Nito, a husk of hollowed skulls and black swirling miasmas leered over him. Leeroy struggled, his legs skidding behind him, his one arm bent at the elbow, trying to force his burdened body upright.

He knelt doubled over, struggling to breathe, he removed his helmet to reveal a face as deformed as any demon he had laid to rest. His face smeared, skin black and crisp, his eye sockets devoid of life with black orbs as dark as hell. His skin putrid, his jaw bone, cheek bones and brow protruded out as if he was already hollow. Was he still human?

He got up, his senses heightened, he'd adapted to the darkness, it was his home. He swung Grant wildly and planted it into something. The iron mass wedged into soft cloth wrapped around a black mass of emptiness. The weapon was being pulled from his grasp by an intense force. The skull necklace rattled, the red eyes above glared, the stomach of Nito opened like a chamber, a coffin of death and drew Grant into it. His divine companion was taken from him.

Leeroy looked up and all that stared back was death. Nito raised his skeletal arms, the ground and rock was sent flying into dust particles as a fleet of red tinged, black swords blasted upwards and cut through Leeroy vertically. His severed body was thrown to the floor, eviscerated as his entrails lay behind him.

He crawled with the last energy in his bones, broken and blinded he felt an icy pool of water which he immersed himself in. He ambled into the alcove, the grey, death filled water felt refreshing on his battered limbs and open wounds. He curled up into a ball.

Nito ignored him, it knew death when it saw it. Leeroy lay, the once brilliant magnitude of his white and gold Paladin armour was now stained, bloodied with a crimson red. He turned over as the water began to touch the tip of his mouth, his breaths forced now.

Gywn had left him, life had not taught him what it felt to be alive! He always thought his abilities would guide him to achieve his great aspirations. When he emerged as strong, physically, but also strong willed, a faithful man of god, the church snatched him, he became their Undead experiment and abused his potential. All that was left was a feeling of immense failure…

His last hope was that the Rite of Kindling would make it back. The Age of Fire, it would eventually fade and the dark soul would take over. Who would sacrifice themselves to stoke the flame of the Kiln?

Would anyone ever reach the heights of this golden Paladin?

_The End… _


End file.
